


Nicht Für Mich

by Al_D_Baran



Series: Degenerate Shitfics [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Choking, Force Choking, Gore, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Guro, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Nazi!Germany, Necrophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Slut Shaming, Snuff, Victim Blaming, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_D_Baran/pseuds/Al_D_Baran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before even a second passed between the moment he had seen Ludwig in the wide-open doorway and the one he found himself crushed, asphyxiated under the man’s heavy body, leant over the countertop of his own kitchen."<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nicht Für Mich

**Author's Note:**

> “I close my eyes,  
> We are alone  
> I hold her tight  
> And no one sees her crying  
> She closes her eyes,  
> She doesn't fight back,  
> Love is there for everyone - also for me.”  
> — Liebe ist für alle da, Rammstein

He had ran.

Not for long.

Before even a second passed between the moment he had seen Ludwig in the wide-open doorway and the one he found himself crushed, asphyxiated under the man’s heavy body, leant over the countertop of his own kitchen. Air was punched out of him, yet, the Frenchman still reached for _anything_ he could touch in the knife block, just an arm’s reach away from him, only to push it right over the edge of the counter.

“ _Putain d’ mer—_ ”

Ludwig gripped his jaw hard, the man’s strong body effectively trapping him between his muscular torso and the cold marble. His fingers dug into his skin, the scent of fresh leather making him nauseous. After a few seconds of wrestling, Francis quickly realized he was no match to him in his diminished state, due to both the invasion and the terrible condition of Belgian trenches.

“You have been good, _Frankreich_ , as good as a rat is to hide,” Ludwig purred in his ear, satisfaction dripping from every words as he laughed again. “But foolish and imprudent… really, coming back here?”

Francis would have answered him by spitting into his face if he hadn’t been holding his jaw so tightly. Ludwig pulled his head up roughly, watching him grim satisfaction, his sharp blue eyes drinking up every details of his face and neck, anything he could see.

“Your only mistake… where’s your guard dog? Is he anywhere close?”

As if he’d answer that. Arthur was far enough by now and if he came back, he would be long gone. The Brit was safe – Francis wouldn’t ruin that for anything in the world, even if the thought of being taken as a prisoner made a terrible shiver run up his spine. Arthur was safe and that was the only thing that mattered.

The feeling of Ludwig’s hand on his thigh brought him back to the moment, making him jolt, trying to pull away from the fingers that crept up his leg. That wasn’t to please Ludwig who let go of his jaw only to promptly punch him square in the eye, dizzying him enough for the man to find his belt, unbuckling him to pull his pants down.

“Commando, of course. I did not expect anything else from you.”

The realization of what was happening suddenly dawned upon him. Ludwig wasn’t going to… no, this couldn’t be happening! Francis knew soldiers raped and pillaged, he had seen and survived it, but Germany now was such an homophobic society that he had barely feared it.

“ _Mais qu’est-ce que tu fous!_ ” he yelled, kicking, trying to escape, but only managing to move them from barely a foot before Ludwig punched him once again, twice, cutting short to his fidgeting.

Ludwig punching him again with a desolate click of his tongue, taking a fistful of the Frenchman’s precious hair to have a better look at his face. The budding bruise next to his beautiful blue eyes, the bust lip and the contrast of the blood on his alabaster skin… He had to admit to himself, France really _was_ a beautiful country, especially when cornered like this.

“Really, _Frankreich_? There’s nothing you can do. Just lie back and enjoy. I’ve been told you can do this very easily.”

Francis sobbed, eyes opening wide at the words, bottom lip trembling as he spoke, meekly trying to pull himself away, still, “ _Ta gueule_ ! Shut up! Shup up!”

Ludwig’s hand quickly shot up to his neck, crushing his throat as he pushed him against the countertop. Francis gripped the other man’s arm, unable to even make it budge, panic settling in him immediately. “You talk too much, Frankreich. You rolled over the war, already. It’s not like you have any dignity left.”

Digging his nails in Ludwig’s hand only prompted him to do the same in the flesh of his throat, the pain and lack of air making him go limp. The German smirked, using his other hand to part the flesh of his ass, thrusting a gloved finger inside harshly, then taking it back. The grip on his windpipe lessened, and the dots dancing in front of his vision disappeared to leave Ludwig’s leather-covered hand right in front of his face.

His index was covered in a sticky, white substance. Francis immediately understood what it is, the widening of his eyes making Ludwig’s squeeze his neck tightly again.

“How much of a _whore_ can you be, Francis? Or should I call you… _Fraukreich_ , now? Since you let yourself be taken by this puny Briton?” Ludwig crooned against his ear, laughing in satisfaction as Francis croaked a tiny _non_. He looked terribly amused to see his dizzied panic.

The clinking of a belt followed by the rustling of pants barely reached his ears, the world dancing in his eyes as he gasped for breath, fighting for any bit of air that could have made it to his lungs, bending and writhing, weakly attempting to stop the inevitable. Ludwig let go of his neck just as his cock was pressed against his ass, Ludwig cruelly letting him regain just enough consciousness before he thrusted in.

“So tight, Fraukreich…” Ludwig let out an appreciative groan, making Francis’ stomach drop. “I would have expected an indecent slut like you to be looser.”

Francis cried out in pain – it had been a moment since he had slept with anyone but Arthur and Ludwig was _considerably_ bigger. Tears formed in his eyes as the man started to slam in, pounding into him hard enough to make a pot of flour fall down next to them. The glass shattered, the sharp sound breaking him out of his trance.

Attempting to fight back, Francis slapped the man as hard as he could. Ludwig stopped his movements with a raging cry, his fist meeting the Frenchman’s nose again, the taste of blood automatically entering his mouth as he choked on it as it poured inside his nose. Ludwig held him on the cold marble of the kitchen counter, the gloves barely cushioning the hits.

Feeling faint, Francis feebly tried to flee again, eyes red and irritated with tears, face smeared with blood, dizzy from both the punches and his blocked airways. Using it to his advantage, Ludwig ripped the buttons of his shirt, half pulling it off to use the sleeves to tie him up roughly. He then gripped Francis’ jaw tightly once more, the German looking at him with a ferociously snarl, pushing the canon of his revolver harshly against his cheek.

“Stop. Fucking. Moving. I won’t hesitate to shoot a whore like you.”

As the gun entered his mouth, the heaving of his own chest quickly made Francis nauseous. Breathing was near impossible with the state of his nose and he could feel the hard, cold gun inside his mouth. The sharp, metallic taste of gunpowder had him retch, Francis letting out a pitiful sob. That wouldn’t kill him – but death by gunshot was never a pleasing one. It wouldn’t hurt to _die_ : it would hurt to come back.

The worst, however, wasn’t the idea of a temporary death. It was the impossibility to fight for himself, to be completely overpowered. Rocked by Ludwig’s trusts, Francis felt his skin grow icy; it was as if his tears were now burning. Ludwig held his neck tightly, this time, not to choke, but to keep him down, to show him he was in control. Francis felt weak, like a failure and this time, thinking of Arthur only made him cry harder.

What would he think?

Would he think alike of Ludwig, that he was a whore who had _rolled over_?

Or would he pity him?

Both ideas made Francis equally nauseous. He didn’t want Arthur to pity him.

How could he face him, when they’d both know something had happened?

He couldn’t think of Arthur now. He couldn’t think of him now only to look at him once they’d reunite, only to remember the canon of a gun in his mouth. Between the pain of the dry penetration and the horrid, pepper-like taste of the gun in his mouth, Francis found nothing to hold onto. He tried to ignore it all. Ludwig was grunting in pleasure right against his ear, he could feel his hot breath against his skin.

His eyes slipped closed.

“Are you thinking of him, now?” Ludwig whispered against his ear, biting it to make sure he was listening. “You’ve stopped crying. Are you thinking of your little bulldog?”

No answer.

Ludwig stopped moving, gripping his hair to make eye contact. Francis tried his best to show no emotions – he barely had to, actually. He was weary, suddenly; didn’t want to give Ludwig the pleasure of seeing him admit he had been thinking of Arthur, that the thought of the Brit made him want to retch, that he _couldn’t_ think of him now, as he felt he would taint the very sight of his face.

Taking the gun out of his mouth, Ludwig used it to bring his chin up.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”

Francis stared at the gun’s intricately carved ivory hilt, then Ludwig’s cold blue eyes.

“Certainly, you’d be thinking of him, now.”

A slow blink. He couldn’t give him that.

“Only an underman like him would accept to fuck a slut like you.”

“What are you doing then?” Francis asked, breathing out shakily as he looked down to the cold revolver against his chin.

Ludwig’s eyes became icier than ever, the man smiling, as if he hadn’t understood what he had said, but the emotion behind only smelled rotten.

“Care to repeat that, _Frankreich_?” he asked, placing the mouth of the gun on his forehead.

Francis swallowed hard, looking up as breath grew quicker, Ludwig’s large body and the white cross of the gun taking all of his vision. He heard the clicks of the hammer being pulled back.

Yet, with as much resolve as he had, his voice shook when he spoke, “What are you then?”

Before Francis had the time to close his eyes to brace himself for the impact, the sound of thunder filled the empty house. There was no echo; only silence followed. Blood and brain covered the countertop. The bullet had went right through the marble, leaving a clear impact on it. Francis’ lush blonde hair was wet and matted with his own blood and brains, making him smirk at the idea of having tainted the object of the _untermensch_ ’s vanity. Ludwig placed his gun down with a snap of his tongue again. Francis’ blue eyes were still wide open, glassy and empty, his mouth parted in a silent gasp.

The German sighed again, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. His hair had fallen out of place under the continued effort of holding the Frenchman down, his cheeks were red from pleasure – Francis was tight and warm, still. And above all, _silent_.

“Honestly, _Fraukreich_. Just shut up, sometimes.”

Not that he could answer anymore, Ludwig thought with a satisfied smile. Moving his hands to Francis’ twisted hips, the man felt an odd sense of arousal from the limp, defenceless body in front of him. Now that he wasn’t wriggling, sobbing or insulting him, Francis’ delicate beauty shone through his Aryan features. Under all the blood, his blonde hair had the colour of gold, without any awful brassy tones; his alabaster skin against the deep, cardinal red or dried blood only made it look whiter.

And those wonderful, unseeing indigo eyes…

Francis had everything to please.

Especially when he would just shut the fuck up.

Such a filthy mouth didn’t belong on a masterful Greek Adonis.

Digging his fingers in the tender flesh of Francis’ hips, Ludwig brought them against his own each time they snapped forward. The Frenchman’s body rocked limply under his thrusts, his cheek rubbing against the dirty, cold marble of the counter. There was only the sound of his own groans, the skin meeting skin, the faint rustling of clothes.

Pulling out seconds before he could come, Ludwig gripped the Frenchman’s neck, pulling him close to empty himself over his frozen pout, watching as ribbons of spunk covered the man’s prized hair. Satisfied, Ludwig tucked himself back into his pants. He wiped his bloody, dirty cock on the back of Francis’ white linen shirt, letting his body slide to the ground slowly, falling in a heap of limbs.

Kneeling, the German ran his thumb harshly on the dry, bloodied lips, staring right into Francis’ dull eyes.

“You would be much better if you stopped speaking.”

But that was hopeless.

“I don’t think we need someone like you, still. You’d never keep your mouth shut.”

Francis was too vain, too proud. Standing up, Ludwig smirked. Someone would come there and find him like this, eventually.

As he stepped out of the doorway, Ludwig turned around, looking at the desolate scene he left behind him.

“I hope you’ll learn to hold your tongue, next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are better than kudos.  
> Also, if you didn't understand: Frankreich means France, and Frau/Fraulein means woman.  
> So... when you put the two together... voilà! Nifty little insult.  
> Hope it's okay to put England in there, since after all, this talks quite a bit about him, too.  
> Also, tell me if I missed something that should have been tagged, too.  
> Hope you enjoyed this filth!


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